


The Bud in Winter

by Fyre



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Darkfic, F/M, Gen, Mental Illness, Revenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-03
Updated: 2012-03-03
Packaged: 2017-11-01 02:02:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/350740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyre/pseuds/Fyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For years, the Mayor of Storybrooke has had a secret. When the rumours of that secret reach him, there are no limits to what Mr Gold will do to bring it into the open.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Bud in Winter

**Author's Note:**

> Consider this your five second warning - this fic is much, much darker than anything I've written in years, and hugely darker than anything I've written in this fandom. There are scenes that made me uncomfortable to write with violence and threatening behaviour. They may be uncomfortable to read. Just FYI.
> 
> ... is it possible to write dark semi-fix-it fic? This stands in complete opposition to 'Home before Midnight'.
> 
> And yes, it's just random coincidence I wrote this just after ficwar broke out :P

The cool quiet darkness of the shop was soothing, after the bright, inescapable openness of the Sheriff’s cells. Gold had left the shutters down, and to all intents and purposes, the shop looked abandoned. Company was the last thing he wanted. 

There was no natural light in the gloomy backroom, which suited his mood down to the ground, and he sat at the old table, gazing at the solitary object sitting on the surface. He knew he should be raging and roaring and tearing the world apart again, but this world doesn’t allow a man to do such things, not without repercussions.

He couldn’t imagine the concept of bail being applied to the prison he once sat in, in mines deep below the Enchanted forest. They would have let him out when he was dead, and that was the truth of it. The ‘real world’ was more forgiving, at least to those who could afford it.

That was then, in a world where his power was taken by force.

Now, in a world ruled by the curse - always his, never the Queen’s - he walked free within days, under the supervision of Snow White’s stubborn and headstrong daughter.

His only regret in the whole affair was that Regina now had the truth confirmed. Of course she would have suspected him. Anyone who had ever made a deal with him would have been foolish not to wonder at what small detail they might have overlooked. It was an unfortunate matter, but not the end of the world as she seemed to think.

What mattered was that it was returned: his cup.

It sat on the table, innocuous, simple and barely worth fifty cents.

He extended one hand and traced the chip. Over the past years, he forgot just how many times he had done that very thing. He had no doubts that if someone handed him a piece of clay, he could mould a perfect replica in an instant.

He was stirred from his reverie when the bell in the shop jangled. He could have sworn that he locked the door behind him, but apparently not. He was unsurprised. Sheriff Swan had promised a visit, and he had no doubts that it would be to be sure that she wasn’t about to let the matter drop.

In the shop, someone moved around and Gold turned, frowning. Too heavy-footed to be the gallant Sheriff or even Regina. The steps sounded laboured and awkward. He rose, and pushed through the door into the shop.

What fury had evaporated in prison returned with violent force at the sight of Moe French.

He looked like he was in pain, which was more satisfying than Gold expected, with one arm in a sling, and his head bandaged. His eyes registered something that had to be drug-addled fear, which was a start.

Gold rested his hands on top of his cane and raised his eyebrows. “Mr French.”

“Got your money,” the man mumbled. It might have been fear, or possibly the three missing teeth that Gold could vaguely recall rattling across the floor several nights before. He held out a shaking envelope towards Gold, who looked at it, then back at the man. “In’trest too.”

“Well, this is… unexpected.”

“Please,” French slurred, limping closer. “Take it.”

Gold studied him, the pathetic coward of a man, the man who broke his own child because of unsuitable associations. Unsuitable associations that had saved his pitiful hide. “What makes you think I want your money anymore, Mr French?”

French dropped the envelope on the counter. “Don’t want to owe.”

“That’s not for you to decide,” Gold murmured. He took a step forward. 

French held up his uninjured arm, as if it could shield him. “Please,” he mumbled. “Dropped charges ’gainst you. Need your help.”

Gold’s mouth opened in surprise. He knew he should have produced some condescending response, but the request was so unreasonable and illogical, that even he could not think of a single thing to say.

French seemed to take this as encouragement, and staggered another step closer. “They’ve got her locked,” he said, his unfocussed eyes staring wildly at Gold, “they’ve got her locked in a dungeon.”

Gold’s lips thinned. Whoever thought it a good idea to let a drugged man wander into the premises of his attacker and spout nonsense was going to learn the hard way what a mistake that was. “French,” he said coldly. “I think you’re confusing me with someone who gives a damn.”

French slapped his hand down on the counter. “You hit me because of her!” he cried, and for a moment, his face crumpled with grief. “They took her! Not my fault they took her!”

Gold stared at him. “What the hell are you talking about?”

French frowned at him. “Her,” he said, leaning heavily on the counter. “M’daughter.”

For a moment, the world seemed to freeze completely for Gold, his breath catching in his chest. What the man was saying couldn’t possibly be true. He was drugged out of his senses, and rambling. But that was usually when people were the most honest.

“You don’t have a daughter,” he said slowly. His tongue felt like it was made of lead.

“Took her,” French groaned. “Took her and made me sign the paper.”

Gold - Rumpelstiltskin - stared through the man, beyond the walls, beyond anything that the human eye could see. Someone had told this man to steal his cup. Someone had always known of his weakness. Someone had spoken to Her, and manipulated his suspicions to make him reject Her. Someone had told him that She was dead. Someone had probably given French the money that was being used to pay off his debts. Someone was always a conniving bitch.

The Queen always paid for what she felt was well-earned.

Slowly, he circled the counter to face the man. “Mr French,” he murmured, “why do you think I would help you?”

French stared at him with those glassy, drug-hazed eyes. “Because you want to find her too, don’t you?”

Gold’s hands closed convulsively on the handle of his cane.

French grabbed his arm, and Gold was too surprised to push him away. “Please,” he said, for a moment, lucid and clear-eyed. “The Mayor. She did it. She always tells me what to do for her. I don’t want to, but she… knows things. Please. No one else would help.”

Gold looked down at the hand on his sleeve, then back at the man. “I tell you what, Mr French,” he said, wondering at how calm his voice sounded. “You come back here when your head is clearer. If your story makes sense, I may help you.”

French clumsily clasped his hand, shaking it. “Thank you, Gold,” he blabbered. “Thank you. I’ll come back tomorrow.”

Gold disengaged his hand, and placed it back on top of his cane. It was trembling so violently that it took two attempts. “Very good,” he said. “Tomorrow. Morning. Don’t be late.”

He was still standing there some half an hour after French stumbled out of the shop, his mind whirling. Belle. Alive. Never dead, as the Queen had said. Alive, and locked away somewhere. For years and years. And he had never really looked for her. The Queen didn’t lie, not as he knew. She stretched the truth, but that was a lie, a vast and terrible lie. She was alive. Alive and somewhere in Storybrooke, hidden by all the walls, secrets and treachery the Queen could muster.

Eventually, he walked through to the back of the shop and sat down. The cup gleamed softly in the electric light. He reached out again and traced the chip.

Get the girl, then go for the Mayor. He knew he had to do that. To walk in and shoot Regina between the eyes was growing more tempting by the moment, but Belle. Belle had to be the priority. Find the girl, slay the monster. 

He didn’t notice when the tears began to fall, but they were still falling when he began to laugh.

Belle! Alive!

 

____________________________________

 

The next morning, Moe French woke up in his own bed and remembered exactly what he had said and done. He wondered how strong the medication was that it made him think approaching Gold was a good idea at all.

He had the debt to pay off, which justified the visit, but he had let his lip flap.

It took effort to get up out of the bed, every bone aching. The doctor had given him a list of his injuries, and it got so long, he could no longer remember them all. It was enough to know his medical insurance wouldn’t have covered it.

She’d swanned in, though, as she always did and told him everything was taken care of, including the thick envelope with the money for Gold. He had done a good job, she said. She stopped just short of patting him on the head like some kind of dog.

Moe rubbed his left arm. One of the bones in his forearm was cracked, but it would heal. It wouldn’t take away that fact that she had treated him like she owned him. Like being beaten was part of the arrangement. 

That was why he knew he had dared to go to Gold.

Only one person in the whole of Storybrooke had the balls to go against the bitch in City Hall, and even if that person was the one who beat the living shit out of him, Moe knew that it was the only way he could fight her.

Gold hadn’t started up again where he’d been interrupted, which was a start. There were no new injuries or bruises, and Moe considered that a good sign. 

He remembered the appointment: clear head, tomorrow, morning. 

So, no drugs, in a hell of a lot of pain and soon.

It took him a while to get ready. No shaving yet, the doctors said. It was a bloody good thing too, since he couldn’t tell where his nose started and cheek finished. All the same, he combed as much of his hair as was unbandaged, cleaned the teeth - gingerly - that were intact and put on something that didn’t look like he’d slept in it.

Ho took a cab to the pawnshop. It was still early, so hardly anyone was about, but he still looked around before going in. If the Mayor was keeping an eye on him or on Gold, two visits in as many days would look suspicious. 

The bell jangled deafeningly when he opened the door.

Gold was standing behind the counter like a ghost, pale in the darkness of the shop. “Mr French. Lock the door.”

French’s fingers slipped awkwardly, but he managed to turn the key. It felt like he was locking himself in a cage with a tiger, but if he hadn’t come back, after their talk last night, he had a feeling that Gold would visit him and it would be much less polite. 

Gold waited until he reached the counter, then pushed open the door to the backshop with one hand. “Please,” he murmured, his eyes fixed on French’s face with an intensity that made Moe feel uncomfortable. 

The storeroom was cluttered with every manner of strange and unusual objects, and Moe knew there was probably a piece of property of every one of Storybrooke’s residents in here, in some shape or form. The table in the middle of the room, however, was clear except for a teapot and two cups.

Moe looked at Gold warily.

“Sit,” Gold murmured. “We are going to talk.” 

Moe’s legs folded under him at the murmured command, and he sat heavily on one of the oak chairs. His ribs gave a token protest, jarred, and he wished he’d brought some of the milder painkillers at least. But no. This needed a clear head and he needed to remember everything that both of them said.

Gold was silent for a moment, standing beside the table, before sitting. His cane, his weapon, was put to one side, and he poured tea for both of them. Without asking, he added two sugars and the spot of milk as he stirred, just the way Moe liked it. 

“How did…”

Gold looked at him, his eyes hooded. “Let’s just say I understand people, Mr French,” he said, then took his own cup and saucer. “Now, you told me something last night. About your daughter. That they had her ‘locked in a dungeon’, I believe.”

Moe nodded carefully, his jaw aching. 

“Start from the beginning,” Gold murmured. He looked calm, almost blank. His cup was balanced between his hands, one finger and thumb at the handle, the other finger and thumb cradling the rim, but Moe could see the liquid inside shivering, as if Gold was trembling.

It wasn’t a long story, but it took time with Moe’s damaged mouth and his aching ribs. His little Rosie, taken from him, after apparently having a series of psychotic episodes when she was at work. The Mayor promising to keep her safe, and that it was all for her own good. Finding out that the episodes might not have happened. The Mayor wondering at his paranoia, as if it might be a hereditary problem, whether it might be dangerous, and whether Rosie should be put somewhere much more secure, whether he should be put somewhere too.

Gold said nothing as Moe spoke, not to hurry him or to ask questions. Once or twice, he sipped from his cup, but he was silent. His eyes remained fixed on Moe the whole time.

Finally, he set the cup down. “To save your own miserable hide, you let the Mayor keep her locked up?” he asked mildly, folding his hands on the tabletop. The knuckles were bone-white and Moe had a feeling that the man really wanted to hit him again.

“If I was locked up, she would have been put somewhere worse,” Moe said. His own tea was half-drunk and lukewarm, but he took a mouthful, wincing as it splashed on open wounds on his gums. “Better I stayed in her good books, and didn’t get Rosie into more trouble.”

Gold pushed his chair back, the feet screaming across the floor, and he rose. He walked the length of the room, leaning heavily on his cane, and lifted down something from a shelf. It looked like a model castle, made of wood, with a turret. A child’s toy, maybe.

Moe looked across at him. “I love my daughter, Mr Gold,” he said quietly. “It might not look like it, but if I had to crawl behind the Mayor from here to the west coast to keep Rosie safe, I would have done it.”

“Until now,” Gold murmured, returning to the table. He set the wooden castle down on the tabletop, touching his finger to the spiked tip of the tower. It made Moe uncomfortably aware of the fact the thing was heavy, solid, and both blunt and sharp. That was a lot worse than a narrow wooden cane.

“You’re the only person who knows about her, Gold,” he said in a rush, staring warily at the model. “The Mayor. She made me think it was all in my head. No one else remembered her, not even people at her work after a while. I was starting to wonder if it was all real at all. If she was real. If I could save her at all.”

Gold raised his eyes from the castle to Moe’s face. By the yellowish light that swung from the ceiling, his face was cast in hues of gold and darkness. “She’s real all right,” he said quietly, “and we’re going to find her, whether that bitch wants us to or not.”

 

__________________________________

 

Time was passing.

That might not have meant much, but to Gold, to Storybrooke, it made all the difference in the world. He had a purpose, more than simply destroying the Queen. His discussion with French was enlightening, uncomfortably so. 

To know Regina was taking part in actions that were tantamount to abduction was useful, but it had all been done in such a way that the law would always be on her side. She would have documentation, papers, evidence to support her, and he and French would look the fools if they tried to go against her through legitimate means. 

That meant the only option was through subterfuge.

He had to admit that he was surprised at French's bravado, given his cowardly uselessness. All the same, Gold supposed that if he ever found out his missing child was being held out of his reach and could be found, saved, brought back to him, he would have done the same. He would have given everything to keep his child. He had done everything, once, and risked everything, and in the end, that was what had lost him his son.

He had provided French with an unregistered cellphone, and locked the shop as soon as he departed. Some things required a clear head and no interruptions. A rebellion against the Queen without being suspected or caught was one of those things.

Unfortunately, she was not so obliging.

The door rattled some two hours after French's departure. He didn't immediately move, poring over documents from his files. Sometimes, the little details were overlooked, and he wanted to be sure of who would be useful. The door rattled again, and if it was done much harder, he had a feeling the glass would be cracked by a sharp blow.

He made sure the folders were out of sight, before making his way through to the front of the shop, and the front door. He could see the dark hair and blood-red lips before he even reached the dusty glass.

He gripped his cane until the nearly-smooth scrollwork was cutting into his hand. Something to keep him grounded. He needed to be in control and not drag her into the shop and slice her up until she told him what he wanted to know. He turned the key.

"Regina."

She smiled, and that triumphant gleam was still in her eyes. She always so confident in holding all the cards, but on this occasion, he was amused by the fact she didn't even know what game they were playing. "Mr Gold. May I come in?"

He stepped back and drew the door wide. "Please," he murmured, knowing how much that word grated on her.

She stalked in as if it was her right. It was a trait she had never lost in the transition from one world to the next.

Gold closed the door slowly. It would be so easy to close the door, lock it, and do everything he wanted to her to leave her bloody and broken. She was in his domain now, even if she didn't realise, a place of trapped dreams and shattered lives.

The bell chimed and he looked up at it.

The bell.

Belle.

The door clicked shut, but he left it unlocked. All the better to resist temptation. He pivoted on his heel to face her, unsurprised that she was picking up objects and examining them, as if she could work out their story, their deal.

"How can I help you, your Majesty?" he murmured. She slanted a glare at him, no doubt infuriated that he was now so willing to use his knowledge. 

"I hear that you had a visit from Mr French last night," she murmured, setting down a wooden flute on a shelf. "And another this morning. Strange, since the last time you and he had a... prolonged discussion, he ended up in hospital."

Gold folded his hands on his cane, tapping the forefinger of his right against the knuckles of his left. "Last night, he wanted to pay off his debt," he murmured. "Thank you for that, incidentally. Very generous of you."

"I have no idea what you mean," she lied smoothly. "And this morning?"

Gold smiled mildly. "Mr French is not a very intelligent man," he said. "He thought he could use the charges he held over me to make a deal, one that would benefit him financially and socially."

"You'd think he's learn what you get when you look a gift tiger in the mouth," she said, looking amused with her witticism. 

"You would imagine so," Gold replied dryly. He tilted his head to one side, gazing at her placidly. "Is that why you came? To find out what that useless creature wanted from me? Or do you want to know what he got?"

"Well, I know the charges were dropped," Regina murmured, strolling closer to him. "You must have promised him something very special indeed."

His lips turned up slightly. "A deal is a personal matter, Madame Mayor," he murmured. "As you well know. I've given you complete discretion in all our transactions. I would appreciate it if you allowed others the same courtesy."

The Queen's eyes looked almost black in the faint, dusty light of the shop. "Tell me," she murmured.

"I think you should leave," he murmured, "Please."

He was impressed when she didn't immediately move. It was clear her body was vying with her mind over the command, and her hands curled into red-nailed fists. "You can think what you like," she said slowly, "but that doesn't mean I will. Tell me what he got from you."

Gold gazed at her, slowly putting his head to one side. "Why does it matter?"

She folded her arms. "Because I want to know."

He laughed quietly. "Ah. I see." He stepped closer. "And what is that knowledge worth?"

She didn't flinch. Instead, she reached into her bag and withdrew an envelope. "The charges may have been dropped, but the medical records could still be used as evidence, especially with Sheriff Swan's testimony," she said. "I'll give you access to the records. What you do with them would be your affair."

"More generosity?" he said, studying her. "It must be my lucky day."

Her smile was as convincing as his. "Quite." She offered the envelope.

He plucked it from her fingers, with one finger and thumb. "Mr French wanted a guarantee that I would provide him support for a new business venture," he said. "He wants to branch out, and believes that if he had my aid, as a well-known businessman, it would prove successful."

He wouldn't have been the skilled manipulator he was if he didn't spot the brief flicker of disappointment in her eyes. So she was expecting French to turn on her, sooner or later? Better that she thought it later. "I see."

"Not very exciting, I'm afraid," he said, but he gave the envelope a shake. "But thank you for this. I'm sure it'll prove very useful."

Regina smiled. "I'm sure it shall." She stepped around him and headed for the door. "I'll be watching you, Rumpel."

"I know, dearie," he murmured, running the edge of the envelope along the ball of his thumb. "You always are."

The bell chimed as the door closed, terminating their conversation.

 

________________________________

 

Despite what people think, being a florist is a bloody hard job.

Moe was finding out just how hard it was to be a florist with a broken arm. Two days worth of shipments were sitting, mouldering, in his garage. They were worth a small fortune, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to be able to shift them.

With effort, he managed to drag the buckets into some kind of order, but without both hands to lift them or any way to transport them, he knew for a fact that he was buggered. That was why he’d taken the damn loan out in the first place.

He heard a car draw up outside, and he made his way over to the open garage door to peer out into the chilly spring sunlight. His heart sank at once. The Sheriff. Again.

“Hey!” she called, raising a hand in greeting, as she climbed out the squad car.

“Sheriff,” he muttered, retreating back into the garage. He plucked at some deadheads from a browning bunch, tossing them into a bucket by the wall. He knew why she was here, again, as if she could change his mind.

“Whoa. That’s a hell of a lot of flowers.”

“A hell of a lot of mulch,” Moe replied, looking around the garage. “Can’t get them to the stall. Can’t sell ‘em. Waste of time.”

“I’ll get your truck brought over,” she said at once. She was smiling at him. “Don’t want to be depriving you of your livelihood.”

He looked at her. She was a bright kid, optimistic, smart. Rosie used to be like that, before they dragged her away, half-sedated. “You want something, Sheriff? I thought our business was over with.”

She pushed her hands into the pockets of her pants and looked back at him. “I’m curious,” she said with a shrug. “The guy takes your truck, you steal his stuff. I get that. Payback. What I don’t get is that he beats you half to death and you don’t want to do a thing about it?”

Moe looked at her, then looked away, turning one of the half-empty buckets to pick the dead blooms out of it. “No offence, Sheriff,” he said, “but how I choose to deal with my affairs is my own business.”

“Is he threatening you?”

Moe snorted quietly. For the first time since he started dealing in Storybrooke, he wasn‘t afraid of Gold. At least not of what Gold would do to him. It was no worse than anything that had already been done. “No.”

“Pay-off, then?” 

She was determined, and he wondered briefly if she would be as stubborn if he told her about the Mayor, about Rosie. No. He and Gold both knew what this place was like. Even if you tried to stick it to the Mayor, she would twist it on you and stick you right back. 

“C’mon, Mr French.” She touched his shoulder, and he flinched. Bloody stupid response, but after being caught in a dark alley by a hand on his shoulder and a gun at his nape, it wasn’t exactly a good memory. She pulled her hand back at once. “Sorry.”

He took a deep breath and then another. Bloody heart was running wild, and he shook his head. “Wasn’t you, Miss,” he said. “Just got a bit spooked.”

“Because of what he did?” she suggested, tilting her head.

He ran his hand over his face, the coarse beard springy against his palm. He wondered if he still looked like a poster boy for battered and younger version of Santa Claus. “I know you’re trying to help, Miss,” he said.

“I’m trying to get justice,” she corrected quietly, watching him. “He abducted you at gunpoint. Battered you. He might well have killed you if I hadn’t arrived when I did. Why are you letting him get away with it?”

Moe pulled out one of the rickety stools and sat down. He rubbed his chest, wishing it was possible to slow his heart by willpower alone. “He’s not a good man, I’ll grant you that,” he said, “but it’s not worth getting on his bad side.”

“Which is why he should be in jail.”

He almost laughed aloud at her naivety. “Miss Swan, you’re not from around here,” he said, still rubbing slow circles on his chest. “You think four walls and barred doors could keep Mr Gold from getting to you if he wanted to?”

She frowned. “We could get you put under witness protection,” she offered. “Get you out of Storybrooke. His reach doesn’t extend to the whole world.”

Moe looked down at his hand on his chest. Even if the idea was tempting to get away from the Mayor, Gold, everything shit that had happened here, there was still one person to stay for: Rosie.

“I can’t leave Storybrooke,” he said with finality. “I’m not leaving. And I’m not pressing charges.” With effort, he got back to his feet. “Are we done?”

She gazed at him, her expression unreadable, then nodded. “We’re done,” she agreed, “but if you change your mind, and if you want help with anything, you know where to find me.”

He nodded, standing in the middle of his collection of useless flowers. He waited until she was gone before he kicked the nearest bucket over and walked out of the garage, leaving nothing but a puddle and crushed petals behind him.

 

___________________________________

 

Gold was not an admirer of hospitals.

He supposed it went back to his younger days, the days when he had run. The unfortunate thing about running, in the Enchanted Forest, was that no matter how far you went, whispers still went faster. 

There were more beatings than he could remember in every other town and village both for cowardice and for abandoning the army. One of the assaults, though not the most savage, was the one that damaged his leg beyond repair.

The smell of the apothecary’s hut still haunted him, and while the hospital was clean and sterile by comparison, the associations were the same: people being brought in, helpless, to have unnameable and horrible things done to their bodies. Sometimes, they would be saved, other times, they would not. 

His cane rapped on the polished floor, and he walked onwards without looking around. 

There was one person he was here to see and one person only. He knew precisely where to find him, and exactly how upset the hapless man would be to see him. 

The envelope from Regina was tucked inside the inner-pocket of his jacket, barely even creasing the lines of the seam. If she thought it was worth knowledge of French’s loyalties, he wondered how much she really valued French. He suspect the real value lay with Belle - no, not Belle, Rose, her name was Rose - herself.

Several people crossed his path, but he was satisfied that most chose to hurry past him rather than meet his eye. It amused him to know that as much as the Queen thought herself to be feared, no one fled from her with their heads bowed, not as they fled before him.

He took the elevator up to the administration level. These halls were quieter, more occupied with the wrangling of paper than of patients. This was where all the records were kept, and he knew the files on French were probably around here somewhere. He walked straight past the records office.

A much more important door was waiting.

The secretary at the desk looked up at the tapping of Gold’s cane, and her eyes widened in recognition. She wasn’t one of his, but no doubt, she knew someone who had crossed his path before. “Um. Good morning, Mr Gold. Can… how can I help you?”

“I’m here to see Dr Kent,” he replied, bringing his cane around in front of him. “Tell him it’s relating to my leg.” He smiled slightly. “He always had a moment for me before he was elevated to these lofty heights.”

The girl nodded nervously and hurried through the door directly behind her desk.

Gold looked down at the cane thoughtfully. It had been one of his subtler form of vengeance on the apothecary who had allegedly tried to cure him. Kent - or Crabbe as he was then - was a self-professed healer, and desperation drove the wounded Rumpelstiltskin to him. It was because of him that Gold still limped, even now.

“Mr Gold?” The girl was back. “Doctor Kent will see you.”

“Thank you, my dear,” Gold murmured with a brief smile. He leaned on his cane a little more emphatically than was strictly necessary and limped into the room. It was a grand office, with elegant uplights, plush furnishings and a desk that could quite rival the Titanic in size.

Kent was sitting behind the desk, as if it were a fortress. He looked sick with panic and sweat was already dotting his plump cheeks. It was gratifying to see him looking so completely bloated and red-faced, speaking of high blood pressure and an inclination towards heart disease. A little side effect of the deal he had struck so many years ago. He only wished for success, after all, and Rumpelstiltskin could not be expected to anticipate that he would also wish for health and happiness alongside it.

“Doctor,” Gold murmured. He slanted a glance at the medical certificate on the wall, declaring that Kent was truly a fully qualified doctor. Ignoring the technicalities of living in an existence which wasn’t real, the stamp on the certificate was about as official as dirt. “I see you are doing well.”

“What do you want, Gold?”

Gold shook his head slowly. “Is that any way to speak to an old friend?” he asked. He sat down in the seat opposite Kent. “I arranged for you to receive something, some time ago, if you care to recall.” Kent’s blood-shot eyes flicked to the certificate and back. “We had an agreement that should I ever need your assistance again, I should call by.” He bowed his head mockingly. “I’m calling.”

“You can’t just show up here!” Kent spluttered, tugging at his collar. His tie looked like it was cutting in, just a little tight.

“On the contrary,” Gold murmured, “that’s exactly what I can do.” He laid his cane across his knees. “I need information, you see. And you would have access to it all in your little machine, there.”

“Private files?” Kent croaked. 

“Perhaps,” Gold murmured, rolling the cane back and forth along his thighs. “It all depends on how much you value your own records.” He spread his fingers on the dark wood of his cane and looked up at Kent. “I want to know about a patient here. One particular patient. If your morals are starting to give a twinge, we both know it’s a little late for that.”

Kent looked unhappily at his computer. “Who?” he asked.

“Rose French,” Gold replied, barely speaking the name above a whisper.

Kent tapped on the keyboard. His breathing was laboured and Gold could see faint ribbons of veins throbbing in his temple and throat. The man was a coronary waiting to happen, and in Gold’s eyes, it could hardly happen to a nicer fellow. All the same, he didn’t want to see said coronary happen until he had the relevant information.

“Got her,” Kent finally wheezed.

Gold swung his cane down to rest it on the floor. “Good. Now move.”

Kent stared at him, then struggled to his feet, vacating the luxurious leather chair. 

Gold settled in the seat. He seldom used technology, not out of any particular like or dislike or it, but simply because he rarely required it. He knew how it worked, however, and he scanned through the files, reading rapidly. One had to learn to gather information quickly, especially when looking for a good deal.

Behind him, Kent puffed and wheezed, as if he had run a lap of the building, rather than simply standing up. 

“Good,” Gold murmured. 

All the information he could have hoped was there: Rose was alive, as well as anyone could be expected to be when wrongfully imprisoned under false charges, and she was somewhere in the building below them. The files had restricted access, but when the head of the hospital is under obligation to you, one can usually access the necessary documents.

“Is… is that us even?” Kent asked weakly, as Gold rose from the desk.

“Indeed we are, Mr Kent,” Gold murmured, circling the desk. “I wish you every success. I doubt you’ll see me again.”

Kent sagged into the chair. He looked both drained and relieved.

Gold was halfway to the door before the man gave a sharp little gasp. He smiled mildly and opened the door. “Miss,” he murmured, as he passed the desk. “I believe Dr Kent is need of some assistance. He doesn’t look well.”

He heard her shouting for help as he limped towards the elevator. He hummed to himself as he waited, and saw various doctors - most of them more used to paperwork than actual doctoring - rushing to assist the ill Doctor Kent. 

The doors opened in front of him, revealing the Sheriff, who groaned. “God damnit, Gold.”

He inclined his head. “Miss Swan?” He wasn’t in the least surprised, but at least made an effort to pretend to be. From the moment Regina handed him the passcard for the records office, he knew he had a target on his back. 

She shooed him backwards, away from the door. “Back up, buster,” she said. “I received a tip-off that I would find you here, trying to steal medical documents.”

Gold raised his eyebrows innocently. “I’ve simply been visiting my old physician,” he said and spread his hands elegantly. “If you feel the need to search me for the files I’m stealing or whatever nonsense I’m being accused of, please do.”

The Sheriff didn’t need to be asked twice, patting him down. 

Naturally, all she found was the sealed envelope in his inner pocket.

“What’s this?” She fixed him with her familiar, steely look.

“The Mayor gave it to me,” he replied. “I haven’t opened it, but if you want to, be my guest. I tend to find Regina’s taste in greeting cards rather cliché.”

She frowned, as if he had said something that didn’t quite make sense to her, then tore open the envelope, tipping the flat passcard into her hand. “This looks like a card to override a security door,” she observed, watching him.

“Does it really?” he murmured. “I prefer a lock and key. Much more elegant.”

“Why did you have this?”

He looked at the card, then back at her. “You would have to ask the Mayor about that,” he said. “She gave me the envelope but there weren’t any instructions written on it as you can see.”

Another crash cart rushed by and the Sheriff rubbed her forehead. “If you know why she set you up for something, Gold, you should tell me.”

“Sheriff,” Gold murmured. “She gave me the envelope, but it was unopened, which renders the contents useless anyway. I was here to see a doctor and not the records department, so your appearance here has been in vain. And lastly, there’s a doctor in a room over there dying, and to be honest, I don’t like hospitals or death, so if you don’t mind…”

He pressed the button for the elevator again.

The Sheriff came to stand alongside him. “I know at least part of that was a lie,” she murmured, slipping her hands in her pockets.

He looked sideways at her. “Which part?”

She glanced at him. “I’m working on it.”

 

_______________________________________________

 

Moe's fingers trembled as he tapped Gold's name on the cellphone.

They'd been working for days on finding out where Rosie was hidden. He'd called in every favour he could, even going so far as doing personal floral deliveries to different wards. Sometimes, people had ordered the flowers, other times he put their husband or lover's name to the card, and knew that no guy in his right mind would come clean about it.

It meant he worked his way through all the main wards of the hospital, and it looked like it was all on a business-level. Everyone knew he still couldn't manage his cart, with all the heavy lifting, so home deliveries were the way to go, working from a small shopping cart. He'd even put up fliers all over town. No one in their right mind could suspect he was on the lookout for someone special.

That was when he spotted the door.

He remembered it, vaguely, from the day after his beating. He remembered the Mayor, when he was sitting, waiting for a scan. She went to the door, put in a code and vanished down into a dark corridor. He was wheeled away before she emerged, but the fact that Mayor had a keycode for an exit door that clearly didn't exit anywhere was enough to make him suspicious.

"Speaking." The man was as brusque on the phone as he was in person.

"I think I found it," Moe said urgently. He was standing in his back yard, away from anywhere that a bug could be hidden.

There was an indrawn breath on the other end of the line. "You're sure?"

"There's a door near the scanning room. She had access to it. Coded. Why else would the Mayor have a code?

"I see." Gold was silent for several moments. Moe swapped his phone from one ear to the other, walking in small circles. "Did she know you saw her go in?"

"No," Moe said with certainty. "I was half-conscious at the time. I think she figured I was too out of it to remember. Or that I would think it was a big deal."

The other end of the phone was completely silent.

"What do we do?" Moe asked. His heart was pounding again. What if it was right? But what if it was wrong? What if they infiltrated the hospital only to find that she hadn't been there, or if she had been moved? What if the Mayor was one step ahead of them?

“You do nothing,” Gold finally said. It felt like he’d been silent for hours. “When I send you a message, get to the hospital. Get near the door. When you’re there, send me a message, then stay out of sight. When someone comes out the door, catch it before it closes. If she’s down there, you need to find her and fast. I can’t be present.”

Moe frowned at the blank tone in the man’s voice. “How do you know someone will come out?”

“Oh, they will,” Gold murmured, then disconnected the call.

Moe looked at the phone uncertainly. When he told the Sheriff he didn’t want to get on Gold’s bad side, he was starting to wish he wasn’t on his good side as well. He’d heard the mutters on the top floor of the hospital about Dr Kent, the Chief of Staff. Gold had visited him, and less than half an hour later, he was on a respirator. There wasn’t a mark on him and it could have just been the coronary that they all claimed, but Moe’s own experience of Gold told him otherwise.

If anyone was capable of scaring a man damn near to death, it was Gold.

Still, Gold knew about Rosie. Gold was doing a hell of a lot to help him find her. He didn’t have the balls to ask why, because he had a feeling that Gold would give him that look, the one that told him he was asking too many questions and should probably stop it if he valued his tongue.

He slid the phone back into the pocket of his shirt. He always kept it close, just in case. It was like a lifeline for him, something that could link him back to her, even if it went by way of Gold. They never used names on the calls, which came at random times of the day or night. It was the first time he had ever called Gold, instead of vice versa.

Above him, the sky was darkening, so he headed back indoors to the garage. There were some flower orders to be worked through.

All day, he waited, expecting a call at any time, but the phone rested against his chest, a dull weight like a heart without a beat. He sat in his chair, watching the rain-heavy light fading and he felt his eyes growing heavier and heavier.

He was woken by the cell buzzing against his chest and he groped for it. “Yeah?”

It took him a moment to realise there was no call but a message. He squinted at it. 

Hospital.

He rubbed his eyes, peering at the clock. If it was right, it was barely seven in the morning. 

It took him almost an hour to get to the hospital. 

With half a cup of scalding coffee poured down his throat and a fresh-shirt, he looked almost human when he headed into the halls, which were already bustling with breakfast trolleys, early-morning doctors heading onto rounds and patients shuffling around to stretch their legs.

He tried his best to look casual as he wheeled his shopping cart of bunches of flowers along the halls. He stopped to pass a bundle onto a nurse to take into a patient, a special delivery from work, to keep up the pretence as he made his way towards the scanning department.

Once there, he parked the cart in the waiting area, then made his way towards the vending machines, just out of sight of the door and nurses station. With shaking hands, he sent a message to Gold that he was in place.

A response came instantly: Ignore the alarm. Get to the door.

He only had a split-second to register the words when the alarm started wailing.

Even though the staff had probably drilled for it for weeks and months, there was still chaos as they rushed to start an evacuation. It wasn’t a fire drill, but Moe heard someone swearing about the lab monkeys letting the chemicals out again.

Moe felt sick to his stomach. He knew Gold was ruthless but to trigger an alarm, deceiving the staff into believing ill and injured people were in danger, was something unforgivable. He watched from the shadows as people rushed here and there, patients bundled into wheelchairs and onto gurneys. He almost forgot about his reason for being there until he heard the ping of the security pad at the door.

A nurse emerged, looking around furtively, as if she expected someone would notice her. 

The halls were emptying, and she immediately joined the rush for the doors. Moe ran as fast as he could, his heart drumming in his ribs, and wedged his hand into the gap before the door could close properly. If she was there, all this crap would be worth it. 

No one yelled out and no one tried to stop him as he opened the door and stepped in.

There was a staircase heading downwards and dim lights on the walls. 

It looked like a maintenance passage, with bare pipes and brickwork, and his heart sank like a stone. They couldn’t be keeping anyone down here. It seemed bloody stupid that there would be any staff down here, but then why would there be a nurse if there weren’t patients?

He took a breath, then crept down the stairs, looking around cautiously, before hurrying down the empty corridor. Another corridor opened at the end of that one, this one lined with doors. Each one was heavy and metal and had a hatch in it. Each was locked, but he peered in through the hatches.

The first was empty and dark.

The second…

He clutched at his chest, his breath coming in a gasp. Rosie. Little Rosie. Sitting in the dark, staring at him through the hatch. He fumbled at the lock, tugging at the handle, but the key wasn’t in the lock.

“I’ll be back!” he called through the hatch, and his voice was shaking so much he barely recognised it at all. He stumbled back to the desk that stood at the bottom of the stairs, and searched desperately through the drawers. There was a swipe card and a ring with half a dozen keys, so he grabbed both and ran back to the door. 

The swipe card chimed when he dragged it across the security panel, and he breathed a thank you to whoever might be listening, then tried each of the keys in the keyhole above it. The keys rattled and jumped between his shivering fingers, and he forced himself to take a breath, take his time.

It was the last bloody key on the ring!

He pulled the heavy door open. “Rosie!”

She stared at him uncertainly. “P-papa?” Her voice was dry as old paper.

“I’ve come to take you home, petal,” he said, hurrying over to her. “Come on. We have to get out of here before anyone comes back.” She looked at him, as if she couldn’t understand what he was saying and he caught her small hands in his. They were cold as ice. “We’re going home, petal. Back to the house. Safe and warm.”

Her thin face broke into a smile. “Home?”

“Home,” he promised. She hardly seemed able to stand and though it damn near pulled his broken arm apart, but he scooped her up in his arms. She was a light as a baby bird, and he could feel the frantic patter of her little heart through her ribs. 

The corridors were still abandoned, and though his arm was screaming and his chest was striking out in pain that left him breathless, he carried her all the way back up onto the light and he heard her gave a small, startled sob.

“It’s all right, petal,” he whispered raggedly, carrying her towards the lobby and the way out. “Papa’s here. You’re safe now.”

 

______________________________________

 

There was a swing on the porch, but Gold chose not to sit on it.

He stood by the rail, his hands resting on his stick and waited. If they had been successful, he knew that French would bring his child home immediately. She would need to be somewhere familiar and safe, and for her, that was this plain little house. It was small and modest, but Gold knew she would love it regardless.

She had a knack of making herself a home wherever she was. 

Even with him.

He tried not to think of that place and that time. It was too long ago, and while she might still be alive, what he had done to her was unforgivable. No matter what the Queen implied about her, she had been guiltless of all charges he had laid against her. He was the one who drove her out, straight into the Queen’s merciless clutches.

His breath caught as he saw the familiar van turn into the street, and he wondered again if he should be present. The overwhelming desire to see her face was vying with the need to shield her and protect her from his influence.

French emerged from the van, looking white as a ghost. His shirt was soaked in sweat and he was walking on shaking legs, but he still went around to the passenger side of the van and lifted his passenger down. She was tiny in his arms, pale and thin, her dark hair in tangled disarray around her face.

Gold pressed his lips together, a tight shudder running the length of his body. It felt an effort to swallow or even to breathe.

“Here we are, petal,” French murmured to the girl as he painfully climbed the steps, each one taking him two paces. “Home.”

Blue eyes, dull and drained of vitality, looked blankly at Gold. “Man.”

“Mr Gold, petal,” French replied, setting her down on the swing and breathing deeply. The chains of the swing creaked as it swayed back and forth. “Friend. He helped me find you and bring you home.”

She half-lay, half-sat on the seat, as if incapable of movement, but she continued to gaze at Gold, who could barely make himself meet her eyes. For a split second, her mouth turned up, and that was more gratitude than he knew that he deserved. 

He turned away sharply. “I just wanted to be sure all went well, Mr French,” he said briskly, his voice clipped. “I’m glad to see she’s home and safe with you now.”

“Don’t…” French motioned to the house. “Don’t you want to come in?”

Gold couldn’t bear to look around at her, not to see the fragments of the woman he loved shattered in a broken shell. She was once Belle, but whatever had happened to her, whatever Regina had done to her, had cracked her spirit like a crystal under a hammer. He couldn’t see the sparkle anymore for the dust and splinters.

“I should go,” he said. He was gripping his cane so hard that he was sure his hands would be blackened with bruises. “After all, Madame Mayor will be missing something, and we don’t want her to come looking.”

“What are…”

“I would advise you to forget I was here, Mr French,” Gold said quietly. He took a breath, then turned enough to nod at the girl. Barely a jerk of his head. Barely anything. “Miss French. I hope you enjoy your freedom.”

She whispered then, barely comprehensible, “Thank you.”

He took a sharp, gulping breath, turning his face abruptly away. If she had stabbed him, it couldn’t have been more painful. He picked his way down the steps. It felt like he was walking blind through fiery streets, and every step was burning him. 

Despite the distance, he walked to City Hall.

He had hoped it would give him time to clear his head, but all he could see were the dull, almost emotionally-empty eyes. There was only the faintest of sparks there. What had been Belle was smothered, like a candle under a glass, and he knew who was to blame.

As always, he was given immediate access.

For once, he closed the doors, his back to her.

“Mr Gold.”

His hands rested on the twin handles. “No more games, dearie,” he said, soft and sibilant. “I think you know why I’m here.”

“If it’s to do with your little stunt at the hospital, no one’s amused.”

He traced the edge of one handle with his fingertip, twisted the key in the lock, then turned around to face her. He was amused to see that she leaned back in her chair. Her arrogant Majesty, afraid? 

“My little stunt?” he murmured. He took a step into the centre of the room. “Do you think your little town will be pleased to know what you were keeping in there?”

Her red lips curled in a sneer and she rose, bracing her hands on her desk. “Do you think anyone would believe your accusations, Rumpel?” she said. “I’ve seen the girl. She’s mad as the Hatter, but without the charm. She deserved to be locked away.”

Gold stared at her, lifting his cane in his left hand. He looked at the handle thoughtfully, then swung it around savagely, smashing the round, gilded mirror on the wall into a thousand pieces. 

Regina swore aloud, shocked and alarmed. “What the hell are you doing?”

“You shouldn’t have used her!” he snarled, stalking towards her.

“Why’s she so special?” she retorted angrily, white in the face but furious. She reached for the desk, no doubt for a weapon, and he brought the stick down savagely on her arm, making her scream out in pain. 

“Because,” he growled, grabbing her and slamming her hard against the wall, “she was the one good thing I had left.”

She fought against him, scratching at his face and tearing at his eyes, but he pinned her body with his, his cane pressing across her throat, right arm holding it there, and he caught her chin in a merciless grip with his right hand, holding her fast. They were all but cheek to cheek, both breathing raggedly, both hearts racing, and he could feel every inch of her trembling between him and the wall. Oh, so afraid.

Someone was rattling at the door, pounding on it, calling for her.

“Now,” Rumpelstilskin whispered, his breath hot on her ear as hers was on his. “I have an offer for you.”

She started to swear, snarl, bite, and he pressed the cane harder until she made the most delightful of choked sounds.

“Hush hush, dearie,” he murmured against her ear, his nails biting into her chin. “Listen very carefully, and I’ll let you go.” He heard her whimper, took it as acknowledgement. “Please leave her and her father alone.” He breathed out softly against her throat, felt her shudder. “You won’t go near them. You won’t do anything that could affect them. You won’t hurt them ever again.” He tilted his head slowly, breathed in the smell of her terror. “Because if you do, I’ll cut out your fucking heart and eat it for breakfast.”

He drew back enough to look her in the face. She had her eyes squeezed closed and her face was bone-white, and most wonderful of all was the shining tear that was sliding down her cheek.

Rumpelstiltskin - Gold - one or the other or both leaned closer and kissed the tear from her cheek, tasting the bitterness, and she shied from him as if burnt. “Please do what you’re told, dearie,” he whispered, then stepped back and let her crumple like a cut drape.

There was blood on his face, and he paused in front of the shattered mirror to straighten his tie. He smiled slightly, and a thousand fractured images of himself smiled back, and he walked out of the office as if nothing had happened.

 

_____________________________________

 

The sun was coming up.

While his daughter was sleeping, Moe couldn’t get a wink. Every time a car went past, he was sure it was the Mayor or her boys coming for them. He sat in the chair by the window in Rosie’s bedroom, watching over her while she slept, and keeping one eye on all the door and the windows at all time.

She’d barely spoken since they got home. It was like everything that was his little chatterbox Rosie was lost in the grey-faced patient that they made her. But her smile, when she saw her room, and her old stuffed koala bear, Mister Gumnose, made him hope he could help her out from under the blankness.

Not for the first time, she awoke with a shrill cry, sleep-fogged eyes staring around wildly.

“Hey, petal, hey,” he said quickly, going over to her and wrapping her up in his arms. “I’m still here. You’re home. You’re all right.”

Her thin fingers dug into his back like pincers, as if afraid he might vanish if she let him go. She was crying again, and shaking like a leaf. Moe stroked her hair gently, murmured to her. It was going to be a long and bloody difficult road, and if anyone tried to get her from him again, he knew where he could get a shotgun.

“You’ll be right,” he murmured, stroking her hair gently. “I’ll look after you.”

Eventually, she quieted again, tucked against his chest. Rather than disturb her, he let her rest there, and leaned back to prop himself against the headboard. He almost wished he could let himself sleep as well, but not without knowing they were safe. 

In daylight, things would feel better, he figured.

It was close to two hours before she stirred again, tugging gently at the buttons on his shirt as she had when she was barely walking. “Papa?”

“Yes, petal?”

She looked up at him, her big eyes made even larger by the dark circles around them. “Safe?”

“Mr Gold said he would make sure of it,” he replied, managing a small smile. “He found you and helped me get you out. I think he’ll be able to keep us safe as well.” He winced as he sat up with her, his spine crunching painfully. “How about we get you something to eat, eh? You’re all skin and bone. I think even a vulture would turn his nose up at you right now.”

She blinked at him, then her lips turned up just for a moment. “Beak.”

He laughed. “So you’ve still got a lip on you,” he said, tapping the end of her nose. “How would you like an omelette? Or bacon? Or waffles? Or all of them?”

Rosie’s eyes went round. “Not oatmeal?”

“God, no!” he said, horrified. “What kind of health nut do you take me for?”

She looked at him so solemnly, then she made a small, stifled sound. It took him a moment to realise that she was trying to laugh, but her poor neglected throat was turning into something more like a cough.

He pulled her into a warm hug. “We should get you dressed and out in the sun,” he declared. To hell with the Mayor. Let her try and take his girl away again. He was not going to see Rosie trade one prison for another, even a safe and comfortable one. 

Rosie tugged his button again.

He got up, then offered her his hands. Tentatively, she got to her feet, swaying unsteadily, and she looked up at him. “Atta girl,” he said fondly. “Much too big for your old man to piggy-back you everywhere.”

It took them a while to get down the stairs, and she was panting by the time they reached the kitchen. “Catch your breath,” he said proudly, bending to kiss her head. “I’ll go and grab the paper and see if you got the front page.”

She grabbed his wrist suddenly. “Back?”

“Straight away,” he promised.

He only took a little longer than expected when he saw the front cover of The Mirror. 

Rosie cried out in alarm at the sight of the Mayor on the front page, and he quickly folded the paper away.

“Don’t worry, petal, don’t worry,” he said quickly. “She’s not coming for you again.”

“Bad,” Rosie insisted.

“I know,” Moe said quietly.

He prepared the breakfast and waited until she was picking through the food, as if she couldn’t remember what she liked and what she didn’t. Only then did he open up the paper to read the article about a violent attack on the Mayor in City Hall.

The assailant or assailants were unknown and the Mayor was allegedly suffering from shock and minor head trauma. 

The picture on the cover told another story. Anyone could see the thick bruise running across her throat, a perfectly straight line, like something thin was pressed horizontally across her neck. Something that could also be used to batter people into unconsciousness. 

“Shit, Gold,” he murmured, folding the paper up. “Way to keep her attention off us.”

Rosie looked across the table at him enquiringly.

“Nothing to worry about, petal,” he assured her. “I think that Mr Gold just made sure we don’t have to worry about the Mayor at all in future. No one is coming to take you away, ever again.”

This time, her smile could have lit up the room.

 

_________________________________

 

Gold understood how people thought.

It was one of the reasons he was so adept at manipulating them.

He knew Regina would not take kindly to having her power stripped away in her domain, where she always had complete authority and control. He knew there would be repercussions, and he waited for them, keeping his eyes open. He was surprised it took her over three days, but then, she did delude herself into thinking she was a skilled planner.

It was a quiet Tuesday evening, and he was going to his shop to do a stock-take. Not that it was really necessary. He knew every item in the shop and the intimate history tied to it. It was simply something to distract him from the knowledge that Belle was only a short distance away, separated from him only by a door and complete mental collapse.

There was nothing out of the ordinary when he reached the entrance, but he could see where the door had been forced, fleck of paint scraped away by metal. He studied the damage, then checked the handle. Locked from the inside, then. So she had someone inside, waiting for him, did she?

He drew the gun which he had taken to carrying at his belt ever since the robbery, then unlocked the door. The shop was as dark as ever. He reached around the door frame and hit the light switch. The lights sputtered and fizzed, then puffed out, as if by magic.

So that was to be the way of it.

He pushed the door closed behind him and waited, letting his eyes grow accustomed to the darkness as they always did. The faint yellow of the streetlights filtered through the dusty glass, but it was only enough to illuminate vague shapes and shadows of shelves. He scanned the room slowly, looking for anything unfamiliar or out of place.

One step forward, and another searching look. 

He could retreat out of the shop, call the Sheriff to report a break-in, but this was beyond the Sheriff’s line of duty. This was personal, and he wasn’t going to be driven out of his own domain by a crazed Queen’s lackey who may or may not even still be there.

He couldn’t hear anyone breathing, which suggested that whoever was present was either hiding in the back of the shop, or was skilled at watching and waiting. It wouldn’t surprise him if she had a second huntsman up her sleeve. She always did like to keep the most deadly creatures by her side.

Four paces into the shop, he heard the faintest of scraping behind him and spun, firing in the direction of the sound. One of the window panes shattered, letting a strip of light in. Nothing there. He still held the gun steady, pointing at the deeper patch of shadow near the door. Only then did he see the string trailing across the floor, attached to a block.

He whirled to seek out the other end of the string, and the person handling it, only to see a spark in the darkness a split second before something struck him hard in the chest. It was like being struck by lightning, and almost lifted him off his feet, throwing him back against the shelves. The gun skittered from his hand, spinning away, and he collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut.

The floor was thick with dust against his face, and he tried to curse, but his tongue felt like it was glued to the bottom of his mouth. He could make out the wires of the tazer trailing into the darkness, the prongs still burning against his chest through the shirt.

Footsteps approached, and he saw the shining stilettos. Doing her own dirty work, for once? 

She prodded him with her foot, rolling him onto his back, and stood over him. He could only just make out the red of her lips, the rest of her hazy dull yellow and black like a fading bruise in the darkness.

“R-Reg…” It was almost a sound. He put all his focus there, in his words. His body was limp and useless, still twitching from the electrical current, and he knew for a fact he wouldn’t get the feeling back for at least a good half hour, but if he had his words, specifically a word, he could at least minimise the damage she doubtless intended to do.

She wound the wire of the tazer around her fingertips, staring at him. He’d never seen her lost for words before. Clearly, the impact of their encounter in the office had shaken her more than he realised. 

He wouldn’t be himself if he didn’t take the tiniest bit of pleasure in that, and despite the pain and the shudders still rattling through him, he forced his twitching lips into a grin.

That broke the spell holding her rigid above him. She knelt suddenly, pinning him with a hand on his shoulder and a knee on his abdomen, holding him hard against the floor. This close, her eyes were glassy, furious, and yet, he could still see fear there.

He was stunned, physically helpless, and she was still afraid of him. 

He would have laughed if he could have.

“You went too far, Rumpel,” she whispered. Her voice was even shaking. Precious. 

He drew his lips back, bared his teeth, just about all he could do.

She ripped the tazer from him, threw it aside, then tugged at his shirt, tearing it open. He heard the buttons rattle as they bounced across the floor. His eyes remained fixed on her face, and he could see the madness and the desperation there, and he knew what to expect, even before she drew the curved knife from her bag.

It was her ultimate method of control. When all else fails, take the heart of your enemy and make him submit to you.

He hoped the electricity had numbed him, but nothing could have been further from the truth as the blade sliced into his chest. He could feel the blood running, thick and sluggish, over the knife, over her hands, over his ribs.

She dropped the knife beside him. It rattled deafeningly, and she bared her teeth in a feral grin, plunging her hands into the ragged wound. Her fingers dug deep, searching, twisting and squirming beneath his ribs. She knew where to look, and he knew what she wouldn’t find.

Stifled sounds of pain caught in his throat, but he still grinned when she pulled her empty hands from his chest. 

“What the hell are you?” she whispered, staring at her hands, bloody to the wrists.

“Not yours to take,” he grit out between his teeth.

She stared at him in incomprehension, which gave way to fury. She had the knife in her hands again, and it slid through skin, between bone, over and over. She was sobbing and raging, and he was watching her crack. Even though it was painful, it was almost worth it to watch her shatter, just like she had shattered Belle.

She fell back off him, sitting, her hands still clutching the knife as if it was a security line. He could feel his blood pooling under him, soaking through his clothing from all sides. She’d ruined the best one of his suits.

He tried to speak, but blood welled from his throat, coating his tongue. The world was getting hazy at the edges, and he could see blackness creeping in. Technically, it was fatal, based on the wounds. It was an interesting sensation, mortality.

Somewhere on the edge of his awareness, the Queen staggered upright. Her heels clattered and then, things were falling, shelves, paper, artefacts. He could hear it. Feel it. His shop was being torn up around him, destroyed like his body.

The last thing he was aware of was the smell of burning.

 

________________________________________

 

It was raining in Storybrooke.

Rosie was sitting by the window, watching the raindrops pattering against the glass as if she’d never seen such a thing. Once in a while, she would touch her fingertip to the window and trace the trickling drip down the pane.

Moe watched her fondly from his chair. She was doing better. She could manage to be in a room without him for five minutes, even letting him close the door if he went into the bathroom, but every so often, she would still turn to check he was around.

A thump against the front door told him the paper was in, so he left his mug of tea and went to collect it. He shook out the rolled up bundle, and was halfway back to the living room when he saw the headline on the front page. He stopped dead in the middle of the hall, staring at the burnt-out ruin of Gold’s shop, then searched through the story below.

He was still standing there minutes later, onto the third page of the story, re-reading it, hardly believing it. Rosie peeked around the door, then crept up beside him. 

“Papa?”

The paper was open at the third page, and an unflattering photograph of Gold took up most of it. It was surrounded by text, detailing that his crimes had probably come back to haunt him, which was why he’d been attacked.

“Shit,” Moe said, closing the paper. “Shit shit shit.”

Rosie took the edge of the paper. “Can I see?” she asked quietly.

“Better not to, petal,” he said quickly. “Mr Gold just got himself into some trouble.”

Blue eyes searched his face, and she pulled the paper gently from his hands. He stood helpless as she disappeared back into the living room with it, and spread it on the coffee table to read what had happened.

At least, Moe thought as he followed her, Gold wasn’t dead. There wasn’t any obituary, and he’d caught the word critical somewhere in the text.

She finally looked up at him. “My fault?” she asked in a whisper.

“No, petal,” he said urgently, hurrying to her side and sitting beside her. “Mr Gold wasn’t well liked.” He took a breath. “I don’t think this is anything to do with you.”

Her eyes were bright with tears. “Papa, you lie.”

He gazed at her, then nodded. “Yeah,” he agreed. “He wasn’t happy you were locked up. He wanted you out and safe. I think he even hurt the Mayor to stop her coming after us.” He looked at the paper, the picture of Gold. “It’s not right.”

Rosie was rocking slowly under his arm, staring at the picture. “She did it,” she whispered. “Know it. Hurt him. Hurt him because of me.” Her small hands latched onto his arm, her grip punishing. “We have to tell.”

“Tell who?” he asked. “Petal, this town is a bad town.”

“Police?” she suggested helplessly.

Moe stared at her. Even weeks ago, when Sheriff Graham was in charge, he would never have considered it, but Sheriff Swan was a whole different kettle of fish. Everyone knew she didn’t give a damn what the Mayor wanted and stood up for herself at all times.

“Get your shoes,” he said, getting up. “We’re going to go and see the Sheriff. It’s about time she knew what she was dealing with.”

Rosie hugged him, kissing him on the cheek, and hurried away to find her shoes. She was flushed and shaking when she returned. Her coat was zipped up to the chin, and she had tucked all her hair into the hood. She held out her tiny hand to him, and he squeezed it.

“My brave girl.”

She laughed shakily. “Brave.”

All the way into town, she kept a tight grip on his hand. 

Moe wasn’t surprised to see the Sheriff’s office was empty, though the door was open. With one of the leading figures in the town a victim of a violent assault and arson attack in his own premises, she was probably run off her feet.

“We’ll wait,” he said, gently leading Rosie over to the couch.

She sat down and wedged her hands between her knees, squeezing them together until he could see the skin going white. He gently reached down and drew them free, cradling them between his larger palms. She was so small, just like her mother was.

He wasn’t sure how long they were sitting there. Rosie was drawing intricate patterns on his palms with her fingertips when the Sheriff returned, and the moment the other woman walked into the room, Rosie’s fingers clutched at his.

“You’re right, petal,” he soothed her. “You’re right. Nothing to worry about.”

The Sheriff rubbed her eyes, stifling a yawn. She looked exhausted and he could see her hair was singed and twisted into an unforgiving knot that made her face look thin and worn. “I wasn’t expecting to see you again, Mr French,” she said. “And unless you’ve come to confess you were getting back at Gold…”

Moe stood up, and Rosie rose with him. “We know why he was attacked,” he said. His voice was quivering, and he knew exactly why. He’d already shafted the Mayor once, but doing it again, given the fact she’d just tried to have a man killed, was probably suicidal.

Sheriff Swan’s eyes narrowed, then she gestured sharply to the chairs at her desk. “Sit,” she ordered. “And talk.”

 

_______________________________________

 

Gold was not entirely surprised when he woke up.

When you create a curse that is - in part - vengeance against the whole world, it would be a bit of a pointless exercise if you could be killed before it reached it’s peak. His life was bound to the curse, and he knew that fact had eluded Regina when she carved into him like a slab of fresh meat.

His vision was hazy, and his head aching. He tried to move his hand, but nothing below his neck seemed to be functional. There were tubes into his nose, lines into his hands, and on the whole, he was rather glad to know that Doctor Kent was out of the picture. At least the majority of the doctors in Storybrooke’s hospital seemed to know what they were doing.

Something was beeping by his bed and he squinted at it. The monitor was apparently tracking the beat of the heart that Regina had been unable to find. His lips twitched, and he wondered just how furious she would be that even after she stabbed him multiple times, dropped shelves on him and set him on fire, he was still alive.

“You’re awake at last?” The voice came from the other side of the bed. He turned his head and the stitches in his throat tugged and burned. Regina was sitting there, hollow-eyed, her hands folded in her lap.

He tried to respond, but nothing came out but a hoarse choked noise.

“Oh, don’t worry about that, Rumpel,” she said, getting up and smoothing her suit. “I might not have been able to kill you, but you can be damned sure you’re not going to be speaking to anyone about what happened any time soon.”

That… was not a pleasant thought. He swallowed, and it burned.

“You’re just lucky Sheriff Swan happened to be called, after your gunshot,” the Mayor continued, sitting down on the edge of the bed and covering his hand with hers. He wanted nothing more than to catch her fingers, twist them, break them. “She managed to get you out, unfortunately, and here you are.”

That explained the lack of charring, he supposed. The only places that were really hurting were the places where Regina’s little knife had cut into him. His lungs ached as well, but smoke inhalation would do that.

Regina leaned forward, plumping his pillows and making his body twitch in pain. Her face was so close to his, he could feel the warmth of her breath. Turn about, only she wasn’t really in as much control as she liked to think.

“They think you may not walk again, you know,” she whispered. “I can’t imagine that, to be unable to walk, unable to talk. And all the while, that little bimbo that you were so taken with doesn’t have a clue that it’s all because of her. And she’ll never ever know why you did it.”

Ah, of course. 

She would bring Belle up, but that didn’t worry him anymore.

Belle was safe, and so was her father. They would both be well, and eventually, she might even be happy, and that was the important thing. It was the last thing he asked Regina to do, and he knew damn well that it was one deal she couldn’t break, not with blood and sacrifice that had now been layered into it.

Regina searched his face with her eyes, and what she saw made her smile fade. In turn, his returned, painful and stretching skin unbearable, but oh, worth it. She glared at him savagely, and he knew she had probably tried to smother him when the doctors weren’t looking, then rose from the bed.

“Enjoy your infirmity,” she said, pausing to check her hair in the mirror.

Really, dearie, he thought to himself, don’t keep trying to be me. It doesn’t flatter you.

He had less than ten minutes of peace before the doctors bustled in, poking and prodding at him. As the Mayor had said, she really had done a number on him. His larynx had been transected, there were multiple stab wounds to his torso and throat, and the weight of a building almost collapsing on him had done severe damage to his neck and spine. It was touch and go whether he would regain any movement at all.

It was another prison, though not a mine or a cell this time. 

He didn’t respond, his expression calm and blank, as they gave their prognosis. He supposed the lack of tears and distress confused them, because they departed quickly, leaving him and his four dull walls.

He was unsurprised when the Sheriff arrived, later in the day.

Like Regina, she looked exhausted, but unlike the Mayor, she had a fire in her eyes that caught him by surprise. She stood in the doorway and gazed at him for several minutes, before closing the door behind her and approaching the bed.

“I’ve had a visitor,” she said, sitting down beside the bed. “And his daughter. They had a very interesting story to tell me.”

Gold’s lips twitched. Sometimes, people just needed a good, hard kick up the arse to help them to be brave. Poor Moe French had clearly found out just how hard his little nymph of a daughter could kick.

The Sheriff reached out and covered his hand. “Gold, I didn’t haul your scrawny ass out of that burning building just to let someone get away with attempted murder. I already have a testimony from French and his daughter. Now, I need something from you.”

He inclined his head minutely.

“You know the blink-one-for-yes code, right?” He blinked. “Okay. Good. So, do you know who did this to you?” He blinked again, once. Sheriff Swan took a breath, as if barely daring to say it. “Was it the Mayor?”

He considered it. Maybe this was the trigger point, which would get her to bring down the Queen. It would be delightfully ironic if the Queen’s attempt to disrupt the curse and his role it was the very thing that resulted in her defeat.

He blinked. Once.

 

___________________________________

 

Things were good.

Rosie French felt like things were getting better. She was able to face going out of the house with her father, without needing to hold onto his hand. She even went to the store on her own and bought something and no one even blinked twice.

Her papa was delighted with how well she was doing. Her nightmares were rarer now, and sometimes, she even slept through the whole night without needing to go and open a window or a door, just to check she still could. 

Mister Gumnose still stayed with her, just in case, tucked in the crook of her arm when she slept. It felt safe with him there, her favourite gift from her grandma when she was so small she could barely even remember.

Sometimes, when she was feeling safest, she would help her papa with the flower stand. If she got scared, she could stay in the van with her latest book, but some days, it was a whole day with the sun on her skin and the wind in her hair, and it made her smile.

One day, her father asked her if she would like to be really brave and to help him on a big delivery to the hospital. It was a special occasion, Mother’s day, and little bouquets were to be given to the ladies who were currently in hospital.

She remembered the hospital and she remembered being carried out of it, but the hospital didn’t just mean the room where she was locked in, day after day, for almost ever. It meant other patients, people who were sick and couldn’t leave. They couldn’t leave and they were probably worried and scared.

It took her a long time to decide. She knew they wouldn’t lock her away again. The Sheriff had come to see her after the Mayor was arrested. She had promised that Rosie was safe now, safe from everyone. But every time she thought of the building, she could feel the walls closing in on her.

In the end, she agreed to go, despite the worried expression on her father’s face. It wasn’t because she was brave. She wasn’t. She was scared to death of the place. But if she pretended to be brave, even for a little while, maybe that would help drive the fear away and help her to be brave in reality.

All the same, when she stepped out of the truck outside of the hospital, it took nearly five minutes for her to stop shaking enough to help her papa load up the little trolley with flowers, and she was trying her best not to be sick.

“You sure about this, petal?” her father asked squeezing her shoulders with his big, warm hands. “You don’t need to come in.”

“Yes I do,” she whispered. “It’s not going to beat me.”

He hugged her warmly, almost picking her up in his arms. “I’ll be right there, petal,” he promised. “Don’t you worry about that.”

She still held onto his arm as they went into the hospital, trying to keep her breathing steady and stop her heart trying to pop out through her chest. No one yelled out or pointed or tried to drag her back towards the basement. No one even seemed to notice, as they made there way to the long-term wards.

It got easier, as they visited the wards. The grateful smiles and the surprised expressions were worth every terrified skip of her heart. One lady even offered trembling arms for a hug, which made Rosie giggle nervously.

When they were down to the last few bundles, she spotted a familiar face.

“Papa,” she whispered, pointing through the glass panels that divided the private rooms from the main wards and corridors.

Her father followed her line of sight and he smiled. “I think we have a spare, if you want to say thank you.”

She beamed at him gratefully and looked through the remaining bunches. There was one very nice one with a red rose right in the middle of it. Red roses were always her favourites. She picked the bundle up carefully and neatened the rest of the flowers around it. She raised her eyes to her father.

“Go ahead,” he said. “I’ll be here.”

She tiptoed into the room in case he was asleep, hoping not to disturb the man in the bed. Mr Gold was reclined against the pillows, his eyes closed. He didn’t have bandages on, but she could see the scars on his neck, all thick and still dark. His face was pale, just like hers was after so long in hospital, and he still had tubes and lines attached to him.

Rosie bit her lip and crept closer to put the flowers on the table at the foot of his bed for him, a nice surprise for when he woke up. She arranged them carefully to best show them off, and nodded, pleased with the result.

She turned back to look at Gold and squeaked in surprise to find him gazing at her, his eyes tired and blood-shot. “Not sleeping!”

His lips turned up, just a little.

She blushed, then waved at the flowers. “To say thank you.”

His eyes flicked from her to the flowers, then back. He lowered his chin in a slow nod of acknowledgement.

He couldn’t move, she realised, and still couldn’t speak, and it had all happened because he was trying to stop the Mayor from locking her back up in this very building. Instead, he was locked up in her place, unable to speak to anyone or move, in a closed away room with people looking in on him like a curio.

Suddenly, flowers seemed a pitiful thank you.

She stared at him, then moved closer to the bed. He was watching her and he almost looked as scared as she was feeling, confused. Rosie always hated to feel scared, so she leaned down and wrapped her arms around him as much as could and hugged him tight.

“Thank you,” she whispered, her cheek brushing his. His hair was tickling across her nose, but she found she didn’t want to let him go, not unless she could help him out of the hospital too, like he had helped her. 

She could feel hot warmth on her cheek. His tears or hers, she didn’t know. She cradled his head gently, stroked his hair and knew in that moment, come hell or high water, one day, she would help him break free too.

**Author's Note:**

> There is also now a sequel: [The Bud in Bloom](http://archiveofourown.org/works/360252)


End file.
